


When The Evening Comes

by milkyway



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Conflict, Depressed Derek, Derek is a Failwolf, Domestic Derek and Stiles, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Human Alpha Stiles, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pack Politics, Psychoanalysis, Relationship Issues, True Love, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkyway/pseuds/milkyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek will be reunited soon, but Derek can't understand why he feels so empty these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nogitsune_lichen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogitsune_lichen/gifts).



> A bit of a deviation, and a companion piece to "What'll I Do (When You Are Far Away)" and "In The Spaces Of The Dark" with some minor deviations... maybe, but compliant with my own headcanon.

When the evening comes, the dread creeps into him, somehow finding its way into his belly. It's as if it is a tangible substance: it whirls like a dark smoke through his heart, into his blood vessels, squeezed out into tissues, eventually flowing sluggishly under his skin.

 

The darkness shuts out every trick of the light; even when the Moon rises and beckons him to take up the ancient call, his flicker only a dull, soft red.

 

He misses his mate.

 

He misses him as a planet misses its star; as a star misses its galaxy.

 

It's only two more months, so Derek berates himself. He should be feeling happy, elated that they will be reunited soon. What an asshole he is, he thinks to himself, being resentful: Stiles is sailing through university; Derek will even be moving to San Francisco soon to be with him, starting his own studies. The guilt gnaws at him constantly. _I'm an ungrateful bastard. I have everything I could have wanted. True love. A mate. A bright future. A pack that loves me._

 

Yet here he sits in the evenings, staring at the carcass of the Nemeton, immersing himself in dark deep memories. He wants to feel pain, wants to feel something. Because he feels numb. Because the past has happened, it is safe, it's comforting in a twisted way.

 

Because at least, there, in the darkness, there is no horror that everything good and wonderful will be taken. It’s already empty.

 

When Stiles comes home every other weekend, he pretends as best he can. It feels as if invisible weights are attached to his lips, but he forces himself to smile. He tries to focus on the brunet's excited babbling about parties and awesome chemistry courses and plans for the new apartment, but he can't find purchase. Even when Stiles lies pillowed on his chest on Friday and Saturday nights, snoring softly, his lovely scent filling the room, the anxiety zooms in like a hateful unwanted guest. _He'll be leaving on Sunday afternoon again. And then he's in the big city. What if something happens to him? A drunk truck driver could take him out on the way. He could hurt himself getting out of bed; he's so fragile. He could... he could meet someone better. Someone better for him. Great God in heaven..._

 

Cora notes it immediately when she comes up from San Diego for a week’s visit. She senses her brother's anguish the moment she walks into the loft.

 

"Derek?" she says plaintively as she hugs him hello.

 

“Hi, sis,” he says softly, almost forgetting to nuzzle her. She smells of marzipan and cinnamon, the way she always has. 

 

Derek’s hair is the longest she’s ever seen it, almost down to his shoulders. The circles under his eyes are so dark they’re almost comical. 

 

“You look awful,” she says matter-of-factly, plonking down her bag. Derek’s wearing his usual loafing outfit – the blue Adidas sweats and the grey wifebeater Stiles bought him – but they’re crumpled and stained. He smells sour.

 

Derek shrugs. “I’m just tired, I guess,” he says vaguely, as he shuffles towards the kitchen. Despite his half-hearted attempts to clean up the loft before she arrived, the place is a mess, way worse than the untidy whirlwind Stiles can inflict when he’s there. Derek’s neatness usually borders on the obsessive. 

 

Cora doesn’t reply at first, but walks straight to the kitchen and switches on the kettle. She doesn’t ask him if he wants tea, and she can smell where everything is, and sets out two mugs. 

 

“You don’t have to…”

 

“Jesus, Derek,” she snaps. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Just had a rough shift at work.”

 

In fact, Derek’s called in “sick” at the deli where he works for two days now; they of course don’t know that he’s a werewolf who can’t usually get ill.

 

“Bullshit,” she says. “I can smell you haven’t showered in like two days.”

 

“Oh… I’ve been a bit lazy, sis… how…” –he tries to gather energy to make small talk– “how’s senior year treating you? And the new guy… Jimmy?”

 

He hardly registers as she puts the tea down in front of him. 

 

“ _Derek_. Stop evading me. What’s going on? Oh my God. What’s all this black hair on the couch… have you been in full wolf form for something? What for? I thought the State Council meeting was only next month…”

 

It’s just been easier, lying there for the past 48 hours, not having to speak. He would have gone out walking in the Preserve, but he was now just too tired to get out of the loft. Normally he'd force himself to go walking, past the skeleton of the old Hale House, stripped and poised for rebuilding, until he'd end up at the Nemeton. He'd sit there for hours, zoning out, trying to access some pain like a masochist.

 

“Just leave it sis… why don’t you get settled in the guest room…”

 

“Derek!”

 

He’s silent for a while, and then his eyes get moist. He can hardly believe it when he feels a twinge inside.

 

“I… I miss him.”

 

“Stiles?”

 

He nods. 

 

“But he’s coming tomorrow!" Cora counters. "We’re all going to have a great long weekend together and catch up. And you’re moving in soon… and Scott and Allison will be back from Europe before you know it.”

 

It's cold comfort. 

 

“I know… it’s stupid. But… but… the moment he’s here, all I can think about is that he’s going to _leave_ again.”

 

There is a brief moment of something, something not quite hope, but a levity, talking to his bright-eyed little sister. Except she isn't little any more. She's a young woman, and as he notices it, he becomes despondent again.

 

_She has her future too... she's left already._

 

“Long-distance is hard,” Cora says in a soothing voice. “I understand. You’re _not_ stupid. You love him. You’re mates. We can’t bear being separated from our mates. I mean, I haven't got a mate... yet... but look at how Mom and Dad were...”

 

She’s cut through to his core, the way she always has. Cora was always the feistiest of all of them. Laura indulged her little brother’s sensitivity, Seth bullied him good-naturedly, but Cora always called him on all his shit, as only a little sister could. 

 

Rather like Stiles.

 

“I didn’t know it would be this painful,” he says eventually. “I’m starting to shut him out… God, I was such a douche to him when he was here last, and he just shrugged it off and thought I was grumpy because it was New Moon…”

 

Cora regards him for a moment, and then sighs. "Couldn't you move in earlier?"

 

Derek shakes his head. "Scott's away, so you know I've taken over all Alpha duties. And the house... I want it done. And I have my last module to finish before Berkeley accepts me for the postgrad programme."

 

"You know that's not necessary."

 

He growls. 

 

She detects his irritated tone, and decides there's going to be no point arguing with him right now; he'll only snap at her if she points out that he's going to be a _therapist_ but he's avoiding his own feelings.

 

"Why don't you go take a shower, and I'll do the dishes."

 

"Oh... yes... okay... sorry about that."

 

"I'm your sister," she says, rolling her eyes. "You changed Sarah's diapers... and mine apparently if I remember what Mom told me... so I can deal with mess and a smelly brother."

 

Derek allows the tiniest vestige of a smile to curl the corner of his mouth, before the Eyebrows of Doom furrow his brow again. He shuffles off to the bathroom while Cora takes a deep breath and proceeds to tackle the Armageddon in the sink.

*

Cora can hear her brother snoring in his bedroom. She's tired, after vacuuming and dusting and airing the loft. For all her fierce independence, she's inherited her mother's homemaker genes, and can't bear the thought of Stiles coming home to the mess Derek has made. Something is _really_ awry, something she hasn’t seen since before Stiles came into Derek’s life and lit it up like a small sun.

 

She feels a little guilty herself, having started a new life in San Diego: studying economics and having a college life unfettered, something Derek and Laura never had after the fire. She’s toured through Europe, she has friends, a bright future, and always a pack to come home to. And Derek and Stiles saved her life when she and Scott and Isaac were abducted by a malevolent entity. But he shooed her away, even though she knew how much he would miss her.

 

Her brother is the least selfish person she has ever known, man or wolf.

 

Her boyfriend calls, the sweet young surfer she met after her girlfriends dragged her to the beach after a raucous night out. He doesn’t yet know she’s a werewolf, and she suspects he’s been a bit of a stoner, so maybe she needs to break the news when he’s high. Or maybe never. She can tell the difference between what Derek and Stiles have, and the little fling she’s having now. But that’s what Derek said to her: go explore. Live. We’ve all had enough tragedy already.

 

She’s yakking on the phone when she hears the footsteps and the knock on the door, the familiar scent even she can recognise after not seeing him for months.

 

“I’ll call you back,” she says to Jimmy, and rings off. She hurries to the door.

 

“Stiles!” she says, and hugs the grinning man-child who’s obviously run up the stairs. His face is full of mischief, of glee.

 

“Hey, Cora!” he says, and kisses her on the cheek. “Glad to see you got here safe.” He was wary of his de facto sister-in-law for quite a while, but, hey, they’ve been through a lot of shit, and through all of that they’ve discovered they’re quite similar.

 

“I thought you were coming tomorrow?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I bunked my classes today; Lydia said she’d take notes. I thought I’d surprise Derek. Where is he?”

 

She takes his bags even as he protests, ever the gentleman. “He’s sleeping. He’s had a rough day.”

 

Stiles nods. “Don’t wake him,” he says, and Cora heaves a quiet sigh of relief. “Besides, it would be nice to catch up a bit.”

 

“Great,” she says. 

 

They banter quietly in the den area for a while, talking shit, then Cora fixes her gaze on Stiles, and he can read the message in her face, he speaks wolf well now.

 

“What is it?”

 

“We need to talk about Derek. I’m worried about him.”

 

Stiles’s heart ices a little, and his foot starts hammering on the ground, something he hasn’t done since forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora confronts Stiles on his recent absence, and it becomes clear that Derek is not just having a few bad days.

 

Stiles feels even more edgy when Cora lowers her voice.

"When last were you here?" she asks the brunet.

"Two weeks ago. I try and come home every weekend, but it's not always possible."

"Have you noticed anything about Derek lately?"

"Uh, no. Why?"

"He seems a bit... out of sorts. He says he's been working hard."

Stiles nods. "I got that feeling. He keeps stressing about getting your old house sorted, and work and studies, and Alpha duties. I mean, I don't know why he thinks Isaac needs babysitting, he's happily settled at community college and has his brain on that blonde 24/7."

"There's the State Council meeting for all Californian Alphas coming up in Oakland as well," she says. 

"I keep telling him, he takes on too much. But this is Derek we're talking about."

Cora looks a bit irritated. "I don't think it's just that. I think he's depressed."

Stiles considers this for a moment, and then looks mortified. "Jeez, I think you're right. He's been vague lately. And... if I think about it... the physical side of things..."

Cora raises an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

Stiles blushes. "We haven't really gone there if you get my drift. In fact, we haven't yet. I just thought we're both not ready yet, and I understand why he was traumatised... I mean, _Kate_ , for fuck's sake."

Stiles has been postively _gagging_ to lose the Big V since he and Derek became an item, especially now that he realises he's going to lose it to his true love. Not many people get to have it in such a special way. But he's been reining himself in as best a nearly 19 year-old can, because he understands. But he's irritated, too, when he thinks that lately they hardly get to second base. And, damn it, it's time now. Scott has been gloating about Allison since sophomore year and frankly it makes Stiles _ill_ to hear all about it. He snapped at his best friend on Skype the previous week when Scott was telling him all the permutations he and Allison had gotten up to in Barcelona.

"So you haven't really noticed much else?" Cora says, pressing more, leaning forward.

Stiles leans back instinctively. "Um, no. I've been busy too, I mean, I've got all these assignments to finish and the rugby team's going away for a long weekend tour against Oregon State and then I need to start finding an apartment for us in San Fran and..."

"So when will you see Derek again?"

"Uh, the tour is next week so..."

"Stiles, he misses you terribly."

"I miss _him_ terribly."

Stiles is a bit taken aback that Cora's suddenly interrogating him.

"I don't think you realise how much he misses you."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you dense? You're his mate. The longer we're separated from our mates, the worse it gets. You should know this, I mean, you're not just an ordinary human, you're a pretty decent magic worker."

Stiles is getting grumpy, and rapidly so. "You don't think I feel the same?"

"Then you can cancel the rugby tour and spend some time with him."

If there's one thing the brunet hates, it's being given ultimatums, no matter how well-intentioned they are. A childish obstinance is bubbling up inside him that he tries hard to suppress.

"Cancel?" he says, in spite of himself. "I'm a flyhalf the First Team! And Derek is so keen for me to go."

"Don't you know he worries constantly about you being injured? He just keeps quiet because he wants you to enjoy college."

"Cora..." he counters. "Are you saying I don't care?"

"Well, you could come home more often."

"He could also come to San Fran, the change will be good for him. And I invited him along to watch the games in Oregon."

Stiles's voice is getting higher by the second, and he can feel static spreading around his fingers.

"I doubt he has the energy. You should be a bit more sensitive. This has probably been going on for a while."

"Sensitive?" he snaps. "What gives you the right to make all sorts of inferences about the way I treat Derek?" 

"You're human, Stiles. For us... it's like having your heart ripped out slowly when you can't be with the one you love. My parents..."

That's the last straw. "Oh, I see, I'm just a little human who doesn't get it," he says angrily. "I've had it with your werewolf supremacist crap. You're always inferring that you're superior to us just because you have fangs and can put up a laser light show in your eyes. How dare you say your pain is greater than mine?"

Cora's growling. "I think you're jealous of our power. I still think you'd take the bite in an instant."

Stiles is stung, because that's the last thing he'd ever do; Derek has _never_ made him feel inferior.

"Fuck you!" he yells. "Even _your_ Alpha mother wasn't immortal. My mother got cancer. What are you, some kind of guilt-mongering histrionic bitch-wolf?"

Cora wolfs out and leaps towards him, fangs out, roaring. But the balls of light Stiles flings at her catch her in mid-air and send her flailing back several feet; she smacks against a concrete pillar and piles into a heap.

Cora's winded, and the shock of the pain makes her shift back instantly.

"Stiles? Cora?" 

Derek is staring horrified at both of them, his face pale. He's shaking.

"Derek! Oh my God!" Stiles yelps. "We were... oh fuck, I'm so sorry."

Cora gets up. "I was... I'm sorry..." she stammers.

Derek looks down and shakes his head. He turns around and starts walking back to his bedroom.

Stiles races towards him, Cora in hot pursuit. "Derek, please..."

"Leave me alone!" he snaps, and walks back into his room. "Both of you!" He slams the door shut. 

"Oh, shit," Stiles says, while Cora covers her face with her hands.

 

* 

Stiles sits nervously in the diner, fidgeting with the triskelion amulet Derek gave him a few weeks ago. It's the werewolf equivalent of an engagement ring; their mating ceremony is going to happen just before they move to San Francisco. 

Cora is tearful, while Stiles fumes. 

"Okay," she says eventually, just after the waitress puts down their food. "I was out of line. I never meant that werewolves are superior to humans. You were right to put me in my place."

Stiles is disarmed; his entire guilt speech crumbles. "It's just... you're a girl. You made me hit out at a girl. I'm ashamed."

"A girl who could snap your head off. And I attacked you. It was self-defence."

Stiles snorts. "I guess we're pretty evenly matched, so no harm done."

"I don't know what it's like to be so... so... vulnerable as humans are," Cora says. "I mean, my dad was human, and my brother and baby sister were. I should have been more sensitive."

Stiles is astonished that Cora's facade is gone. "I didn't mean to infer you're hateful," he says.

"We were silly. Derek has... probably been getting sad slowly, and I just happened to walk in when it was obvious. I admire you, Stiles, I really do. Even before your powers manifested. You're so loyal. All you've done is make him happy."

Stiles is feeling calmer, almost philosophical. "Yeah, yeah. You too. I don't have blood siblings, but the pack is my family. Squabbling's inevitable. I know you'd rip my throat out if I ever hurt Derek, and that's right. So let's cut the platitudes and hug and see what we can about our sadwolf." 

They hug awkwardly over the table, and busy themselves with their food for a while, eating silently. They're both hungry after the spat. Cora eats her tagliatelle with finesse, while Stiles hoovers up his pizza, so that he for intents and purposes is eating like a wolf while the actual werewolf in the restaurant is a perfect human lady.

 

*

Stiles knocks on Derek's bedroom door. 

No answer. 

He sighs, and tries the door. It opens with a creak, and Stiles curses under his breath. 

The blinds are closed, but in the darkness he can see Derek curled into a little ball, knees to his chest, eyes shut. 

Stiles sits down gently at the edge of the bed.

"Derek," he says in a near-whisper. He's grateful Derek's been napping. He shifts toward his mate and reaches out and places a hand on his cheek. He feels cool, unusually so. 

The werewolf stirs and turns around. His eyes glow red briefly, and then revert to normal when he smells Stiles. 

"I thought I told you to leave me alone," he says in a crackly murmur. 

"Whatever," says the brunet. "Cora and I spoke and made up. She thought I'd been ignoring you, and I got my back up. Sorry we got theatrical."

Derek doesn't answer immediately, but stares at the ceiling. "You shouldn't worry about me," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Besides, what are you doing here? It's Thursday. You should be in class."

"Got Lydia to cover. Wanted to surprise you, and then it all went south when Cora and I became childish. And... Oh fuck, I should have realised you might have wanted some brother-sister time. I can..." 

"It's okay, Stiles. And I'll be fine. Thank you for coming."

He sounds formal, and Stiles shivers. Derek sounds distant, miserable. But Stiles flops down next to him anyway, wrapping his arms and legs around him, nuzzling him automatically. He's so good at wolf language lately that Isaac sometimes forgets, and Stiles has to zap him with a few volts of Industrial Stiles & Magic when he is about to get crushed with affection. 

Derek turns around and grabs Stiles, clutching his shirt, pressing his head against his chest furiously. It hurts, but the brunet endures it. 

"Hello, my wolf," Stiles croons, and kisses him lightly. Derek returns the gesture plaintively, and then goes limp and sighs. Stiles’s heart wants to break. 

"I'm sorry," the werewolf says. "I'm sorry I made you and Cora fight."

"For fuck's sake, Sillywolf, that's ridiculous!” Stiles says in an empty chuckle. “Now come on. Get your grumpy ass out of the bed and come watch some Call The Midwife with me and Cora, we've all been wanting to see the Christmas Special for ages now. And I got you pizza."

"I'm not really hungry," Derek says, and Stiles huffs, tugging at his mate's shoulder. 

"I suspect you probably haven't eaten all day. Just have a slice and come sit with me. Snuggles on the couch and you're gonna get a back rub." 

Derek nods meekly, and follows Stiles out of the room, squinting as his eyes adjust to the autumnal twilight. He can feel the evening coming, and he doesn’t know how to stop the ice that’s already forming behind his skull.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's cold inside Derek's mind. And so dark. So terribly, terribly dark. He needs help, and Stiles and Cora don't know what to do.

The knots in the werewolf’s back muscles are like little lumps of steel. Stiles is used to the feel of his mate’s fantastic musculature, but he’s never seen Derek wince when he gives him a back rub. He’s sitting on the floor slumped forward in front of the couch, between Stiles’s legs, not saying anything. Usually Derek groans with pleasure when Stiles’s pianist hands caress his skin and play virtual concertos on his body. Tonight he’s silent, hardly registering the TV show that is one of their favourite. Chummy is in peak form on the Christmas Special, and Stiles cackles like an old woman every time Sister Evangelina dispenses her heavy-handed Cockney love to the poverty-stricken people of the East End.

“I totally need to earn millions now,” says Stiles,  “because I need to _buy_ Miranda Hart and let her be our future children’s nanny and godmother. With the blue uniform and the bicycle included.”

Cora giggles, but stops when she sees the dead look in her brother’s eyes. The werewolf usually  _loves_ how Ms Hart plays Chummy, the dotty naive nun struggling to reconcile her snooty family and decision to take up lodgings in a convent and fall in love… gasp… with a policeman below her social ranking. 

Stiles takes his eyes off the screen, finally sensing his mate’s apathy. _Some mate I am,_ he thinks, angry with himself. _I’m a worker and we’re bonded for life and I should have picked this up early._  

 _“_ Don’t you want more pizza?” Stiles says gently, indicating the box which has only had a single piece taken. 

“Oh,” says Derek flatly, and mechanically reaches for a piece and takes a small, tragic bite. He chews like an automaton, like he’s following an instruction.  

“I can warm it up for you,” Stiles says helpfully.

“It’s… fine. Thank you.”

Stiles sighs a little too loudly. At least he’s eating something, he thinks. He notices there is a low buzz forming in his hands, a strange energy he’s never felt before. It’s almost like a little ectoplasm of anxiety that’s swirling around his fingers, threatening to flood into his palms and wrists and to the rest of his body.

Then he senses that the energy is coming from Derek. He closes his eyes, concentrating on their bond, a bond that’s almost mythological in its intensity: for he is a Red, the rarest of human workers, the perfect compliment to a True Alpha. Theirs is a bond that has been forged from self-sacrifice and true love. And this is what scares Stiles: there is a fog around Derek; he cannot access him fully. He can feel darkness in the werewolf, a deep black despair that’s never been there before. Stiles curses under his breath. He realises with horror, as he focuses his thoughts inward, that he’s somehow been suppressing the signal of pain that’s been coming from his mate. 

He’s _afraid_.   

It’s at that moment that he feels a twinge of cold arc up from Derek’s skin and writhe up into his core, and he swears he hears his heart stop for the briefest of moments. The cold is coming from Derek. 

“What’s it?” says Cora, who hasn’t taken her eyes off the two of them. “Stiles… you look pale. My God, you both look horrible.” 

“Um,” says Stiles, desperately trying to keep the bubbling anxiety from overflowing. “I’m just…”  

He curls his toes inside his socks, clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath, not taking his hands off the spot where they have been resting on Derek’s neck. He summons all his mental strength, pushes, resists, wills the warmth to shoot forth from inside him. The chill waivers for a moment, then gives up and dissipates. The buzzing stops in his hands, Derek’s unusually cool skin feels a little warmer as the magic floods from the brunet’s fingers. Stiles is a little dizzy from the effort, but grateful that whatever it was has vanished.  

“I don’t know,” Stiles confesses. “Probably nothing. I think I just sensed that Derek’s off… oh, hey, love, I don’t mean to talk in the third person, are you all right?” 

Derek is zoned out and doesn’t answer. 

Stiles tugs at the wolf’s left ear, and Derek twitches, turning around.

“Stiles?” he says. Cora has walked up next to them, sitting on her haunches, eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

“Hey,” says the brunet soothingly. “You were like off-planet there.” 

“Mm,” is all Derek says, and then yawns. 

“Maybe we should finish the show later?” Cora says, looking at Stiles, who nods and reaches for the remote. 

“Can I get you something?” asks Stiles, really worried now. 

“I just want to go to bed. Sorry. I just need to sleep. Don’t feel to well.” 

 _But you’ve been sleeping all day,_ is what both his mate and his sister think simultaneously. 

“Sure,” says Stiles, standing up and offering Derek a hand. “Come, let me put my wolfman to bed. Can I bring you some milk? Ovaltine? Tea?” 

Derek sniffs, and shakes his head as Stiles pulls him up. His weight is leaden, it’s as if he makes almost no effort to get up. But Stiles is strong, from years of training with a pack and lacrosse and now college rugby, and doesn’t flinch when he yanks up Derek’s 190 lbs of muscle.  

“Come talk to me after you’ve got him in bed,” Cora mouths, and Stiles nods nervously. 

He puts Derek to bed after having to force him to brush his teeth and change into boxers and a sleep shirt. For a moment, his anguish is eclipsed when he sees how magnificent Derek is naked and his heart swells with love and awe, but then shivers when he sees how fragile and vulnerable he looks.

He covers him with the blanket like he’s a small child and strokes his hair, like he’s petting a dog. 

“I’m coming back just now and I’ll read a bit while you get off to sleep, okay?” Stiles says as evenly as he can. Stiles is frightened now. His mate is miserable, and it’s eating at Stiles; he has visions of Derek falling off a cliff into a vast abyss that has no end… 

He forces himself to get up, and walks quietly towards the door. 

“Stiles?” Derek whispers, eyes closed.

“Yes love?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, his voice cracking a bit. “See you now.” 

“Yeah.”

  
* 

“Pitch perfect DSM V criteria,” Stiles says, exhaling as he sits in the guest bedroom on the bed next to Cora. They’re talking in hushed tones in case Derek can listen in, but Cora can hear from his breathing he’s probably asleep. 

“DSM V?” 

“Oh, the _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders_. I kind of read it cover to cover after my mom died. I spent a lot of time in shrinks’ offices… I have… had?… panic disorder and ADHD as you know but anyway, he’s definitely having a depressive episode if it’s been two weeks. We’ve got to get him to a doctor or something. My psychiatrist is great, her practice is…”  

“No way,” says Cora. “She could discover he’s a werewolf! And how are meds going to help him? You know human medicine doesn’t work on us! And how do we even get him there?! You know how stubborn he is!” 

“Jesus, Cora, you’re right. But we have to do something. I don’t know of any antidepressant spells or potions or… oh yeah, Deaton. I’m so stupid. We have to call Deaton.” 

Stiles dials their Emissary’s cell anxiously, hammering his foot on the floor as it rings.

_Pick up! Pick up!_  

“Hello?”  

Stiles’s relief is tangible. “Alan? Hi! It’s Stiles.” 

Deaton’s voice is indistinct and Stiles can hear loud music and conversation in the background. 

“Stiles? Hey. How are you? Been a while.” 

“I’m fine… listen, I need your help. I’m with Derek and I think he’s ill…”

“What was that?” Deaton says above the din. “I’m not in town, Stiles, I’m in New Orleans visiting family… I’ll be back next week.” 

“Fuck!” Stiles says sotto voce. “Um, um, I really really need your help on this… we think Derek’s depressed. Like seriously. Never seen him like this.” 

“Just wait a moment,” says Deaton. “I’m in a nightclub… I need to get outside.” 

Stiles sighs with frustration and Cora, who has been listening in, mirrors his gesture. 

Glacial moments pass, and then the vets voice is much clearer. 

“Sorry. Outside now. You said what’s wrong?” 

Stiles relays the story. 

“Yeah. It does sound like depression. Has he been doing any self-harm? Does he seem a danger to himself.” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. But the not eating, not looking after himself, the apathy… what can we do? Are there werewolf psychiatrists? Is there some tincture or herb or something he can take? Could I give him dilute wolfsbane and get my doctor to put him on Zoloft or something?” 

“It’s not that simple,” says Deaton. “But there is some damage control you can do… I need you to go to my practice and mix up a few tinctures and extracts I’ve got. You’re going to have to ward them, and consult the Pack Codex. And there _is_ someone Derek can see, in Hill Valley, but I’m going to have to get hold of him first.” 

“The Codex? Only Scott and Derek  can access the Codex because they’re the Alphas! It’s warded to hell and back; I put that spell on it myself and even I can’t break it.” 

“You can, Stiles,” he says. “You know what Pack Law says if the Alpha is unable to lead the pack for any reason.” 

“What?” Stiles says, and Cora’s eyes widen even more. 

“You’re an Alpha mate, Stiles, do I have to spell it out for you?” 

“But a human can’t…” 

“Not usually, Stiles, but technically it is allowed. And you’re no ordinary human.” 

“Um. Um. Oh God. I…” 

“I warn you, it’s going to be unnerving, and you can only do it temporarily.”

“But Cora? She’s here with me, visiting.” 

“You’re the one with the most experience, Stiles, and she’s been away from the pack for a while so her bond is a little weak… trust me… get to my practice and we’ll take it from there. I need to alert a Supreme Council representative and get authorisation.” 

“Okay.” 

“Go. _Now_. Get Cora to watch over him in the meantime.”  

Deaton rang off, and Stiles’s hand goes limp, the phone clattering to the floor. 

“What exactly is Deaton saying?” says Cora with a worried expression. 

Stiles exhales deeply again, and shakes his head with disbelief.

“Apparently, I’m the Alpha now.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the darkness, there is a brief light. And then, Stiles's worst nightmare becomes true.

It takes Stiles a few minutes to find the spare keys to Deaton’s rooms; he’s grateful Derek insisted on having every pack member leave him with a set of keys in case of emergencies. He’s already flustered and panicky when he pulls the Jeep into the driveway of the animal clinic. He had hoped Deaton’s temp would have been a worker too, but it turns out she’s not. He’s going to have to wing his first attempt at being an apothecary.   
  
He can feel the Codex humming with magic where he has it tucked under his arm. To his great relief, the ancient tome did not blast him with a protection ward when he carefully took it from Derek’s bedroom. But he hasn’t dared open it yet, and to be honest, he wishes he doesn’t have to. The last time the Hale Codex was opened by someone other than its own Alpha, more than half of the pack burned to death.  
  
He shivers as he opens the door and the twin scents of urine and disinfectant hit him. He’s glad he’s not a werewolf; he wonders how Scott’s senses can stand it working in the clinic. He disables the alarm, switches on the lights, shuffles into the annex behind the main consulting room. His magic shivers momentarily inside him; he knows he’s surrounded by supernatural things.  
  
He drums his fingers impatiently as he waits for the computer to connect the Skype call.   
  
“That was quick,” the vet says as his face appears on the screen. “I just got back from Bourbon Street.”  
  
“Sure,” says Stiles, uninterested, “so tell me what to do now?”  
  
“You need to do the incantation to assume acting Alpha. If the Codex trusts you, which it should, then it should happen automatically. Then you’ll be able to find what you need. It’s called an Upliftment Spell. It’s only to be used in emergencies, and for good reason.”  
  
“Oi. Have you got the details for this shrink you know yet? Surely all we need to do is get Derek there? Without all this extra magic stuff?”  
  
“I'll text it to you. I'll make the appointment tomorrow morning myself. Thing is, we can’t risk him getting paranoid or shutting you out. The spell you're going to use on him… it will lift his mood, but only temporarily, make him clear-headed for a short while… enough time to get him the help he needs. Werewolves retreat far deeper into themselves when they're traumatised.”  
  
“So we’re giving him a mind-altering magic blast of magic so he can be susceptible to Freudian psychoanalysis?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. He's learnt the hard way that magic and the mundane are not sharply divided in this universe, and that when it comes to things like psychology,  human instinct has generally been spot on. Magic can only make borders pliable, guide, or confuse when used maliciously.   
  
"So how does this transfer of power work? I mean, I'm not getting any werewolf powers, surely?"  
  
"No," says Deaton. "It's subtle. Just put your hands on the Codex, close your eyes, and concentrate. You should anchor on Derek. His wolf should give you permission."  
  
"Why couldn't I just ask him? I feel like I'm deceiving him... stealing his power..."  
  
"Stiles, you two are bonded. Neither of you would yield to the other if you didn't have absolute trust. And you're doing this for the good of the pack. Derek understands the Law. Derek isn’t losing any of his powers to you… but if his downward slide persists, they could… shut down.”  
  
“Jesus,” says Stiles, looking freaked out. “Fine then.” Gingerly, he places his hands on the Codex. He yanks his hands back as he feels a shock, like static electricity.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"I should have warned you," says Deaton. "It's a bit painful, from what I understand."  
  
"Awesome, not," Stiles mutters, and tries again.  
  
The ward... the same ward he placed over a year ago... resists him, snapping like a terrier. But Stiles persists, he bares his teeth and tries to ignore the searing pain in his palms and forearms. Let me in, let me in. I'm a friend.  
  
The ward backs down a bit, as if it's surveying, questioning. Stiles pushes his magic, breathes deeply. He closes his eyes.  
  
"Just keep it up," says Deaton through the iMac's speakers.  
  
At first it's just an inky void, but then there's a tunnel, a swirling vortex of red. In his mind, he runs, dives towards it. Then he feels the ward relaxing as the Codex yields to him.  
  
"I'm in."  
  
"Good. Now find Derek. Find his wolf. Ask it permission."  
  
"How do I find him?" Stiles pants. His whole body is aching, convulsing with small spasms.  
  
"Look inside. Inside yourself. From this point I can't help you... when it's over, you'll know what to do."  
  
"What? Oh."  
  
And there the wolf is, walking slowly towards him in his thoughts. The big dark shape is as familiar as Stiles's own shadow. Derek is beautiful, as wolf or as man. But the wolf looks sad, miserable. It whines, rolls over, exposing it's belly.  
  
Yes, the wolf seems to say, without Stiles even asking.  
  
Then the pain is gone, and the wolf disappears... then reappears, as if in his head. Stiles is dizzy; there is a shock that reverberates through him as he feels himself plugged into a vast consciousness. He shudders as he realises the consciousness of the pack is one with his thoughts. It's as if he's in everyone's heads: he feels Jackson tumbling about in his sleep in his dorm. He focuses on Scott and Allison, he smells coffee and hears a gruff Germanic language... Dutch?... being spoken around them. Isaac, Cora, even Lydia, his father, Melissa. He's aware of them, can feel them under his skin. And Derek: an oceanic sadness enveloping him. Stiles heart is seared with it.  
  
 _Oh my wolf, my mate, why are you so sad?_  
  
Then darkness.  
  
Stiles comes to in a grey dawn filtering through the windows of the clinic. His whole body aches; the headache threatens to cleave his skull in two . He's been out for hours, he realises. The linoleum floor is hard and cold. Groggily, he forces himself to get up, straggling to hold onto the counter just in time to prevent him faceplanting back onto the floor.  
  
He's queasy as the thoughts race back into his mind. But he knows what to do.  
  
He opens the Codex without any drama; finds the upliftment spell quickly. It's dead easy: a splash of vervain here, a drop of wolfsbane, birch, and a drop of blood from a finger. The liquid sparkles as he wards it, turning from a dull brown to a bright green. Simply to be sprinkled on the recipient.   
  
He’s amazed that he's done it so quickly.   
  
He drives back as the sun is rising, trying not to race; he's still unsteady and hung over from whatever the spell did to him.  
  
Cora's waiting at the front door of the loft.  
  
"What happened?" she asks, wide-eyed. "I felt you... like this power went into you, but I thought I was dreaming.”  
  
"Yeah. Apparently I've got official Alpha status now. Minus wolfy powers. But with authority."  
  
Cora nods, not questioning anything.   
  
"Where is he?" Stiles asks.  
  
"Still sleeping. So what do we do now?"  
  
"I made a potion I was... directed to in the Codex. Supposed to lift his spirits temporarily, so we can get him to consent to getting help. It would be much harder apparently if he completely withdrew into himself."  
  
"He's practically there already," says Cora with a grim expression on her face.  
  
“Yeah,” said Stiles. “Something about the wolf taking over.”  
  
“It’s a protective instinct.”  
  
“At least you aren’t were-bears or something. Then you’d probably hibernate for like months.”  
  
Cora rolls her eyes, and then yawns.  
  
“Go sleep,” says Stiles, and yawns himself. “Deaton’s going to make an appointment with this shrink in Hill Valley. I’ll dose your brother up when he surfaces.”  
  
Cora nods, and walks to the guest room, but before she enters, she turns and looks back at the brunet.  
  
“Stiles?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thanks. For everything you do.”  
  
He nods with a sad smile, and waves awkwardly.  
  
Derek looks like an angel. He’s breathing deeply, lost in oblivion, the anguish momentarily gone from his face.   
  
Stiles reaches for the glass flask, and takes off the stopper. For all the world it looks like something he’s made in chemistry prac.  
  
“Here goes,” he says, and pours a fine stream onto Derek’s forehead. The moment it touches the werewolf’s skin, the liquid hisses and foams, and for a horrible moment Stiles swears it’s sulphuric acid or something equally horrific. But then it dissipates, and a faint pink glow forms itself around the werewolf’s face. Derek shifts in his sleep, and exhales deeply. Stiles senses a great peace unfurling in Derek’s core, and he gets tearful with relief.  The brunet crawls into bed and wraps himself tightly around Derek, trying desperately to imagine that this is just an off day and that every things going to be fine in the morning. Except it is already morning.  
  
He manages to sleep until ten, and Derek is still out of it when Stiles is roused by the sunlight streaming directly onto his face.   
  
He nudges his mate. Derek stirs, and opens his eyes, confused.  
  
“Stiles?” he says in a crackly voice, lifting his head up.  
  
“Morning,” Stiles says, smiling gently. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Derek sniffs, and yawns, stretching. “I… I’m good, I think. Jesus, how long have I been sleeping? Is it morning already? I remember Cora coming home… and then you were there and… we had pizza.. God, why is my brain so foggy?”  
  
“You were tired, my love,” Stiles says simply. The spell has seemed to work. “You’ve had a rough couple of days.”  
  
Derek smiles, and it’s like a small sun has lit up the room, he looks ten years younger.   
  
“But you’re here now,” the werewolf says, looking adoringly at the brunet. Stiles’s heart wants to burst with joy, and yet a little cold icicle seems to catch inside him. He knows this will only last a short while.  
  
“I’m here. Now why don’t we get our sorry asses out of bed and have breakfast?”  
  
Stiles doesn’t know how he’s going to convince Derek to have a grand day out at a psychiatrist’s office, but they might as well do it after flapjacks and coffee.  
  
  
*  
  
  
“A psychiatrist,” Derek says blankly, his brow furrowed. Stiles has told him the whole story, from becoming acting Alpha to the ward that has allowed this very conversation to happen.  
  
Stiles glances nervously at Cora, who nods. “Yes,” she says. “We really, really don’t want it to be awkward, but you haven’t been well.”  
  
Derek looks anguished again as he searches through his foggy memories. He shivers, as it hits him how out of it he’s been.  
  
“Oh my God,” he says, his voice cracking. “I really have been a mess, haven’t I? Stiles… shit… you had to invoke emergency pack law… it must have been bad… I haven’t been out of the loft for days!”  
  
“I - I didn’t mean to,” Stiles stammers. “But Deaton said it was necessary. Please… Der… you’re still the Alpha… and you can veto this before the spell wears off later today… but…”  
  
Derek takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “No. You did the right thing. I let the pack down.”  
  
Stiles is irritated. “For God’s sake, this is not your fault! I haven’t made things easy by being away…”  
  
Derek is quick to counter. It’s as if the spell has reached his zenith; he sounds calm; his voice is bright now. “But I coped for the past couple of months. And now things are getting dark… Jesus, yes. I’ll do anything. God knows what I’ve suppressed. At least I have insight…even if it’s just for now…”  
  
“I’d have a very poor view of NYU’s psychology department if one of their graduates didn’t at least show a basic understanding of depression,” Stiles says flatly, half-amused. An actual grin escapes from the corner of the werewolf’s mouth.  
  
For the moment, they act as if the eye of the hurricane is holding.  
  
Stiles’s phone rings. It’s Deaton, with the details of the psychiatrist in Hill Valley. They have an appointment at noon. Dr McQueen is an old friend of the vet’s, a former freelance emissary, well-versed in werewolf affairs. Apparently half of his patients are supernaturals having some sort of existential crisis.  
  
It's surreal as they take the half-hour drive down to Hill Valley in the Jeep. It feels like when they just started dating, every trip abuzz with excitement. It's a crisp early fall day: the leaves have just started to turn yellow and red; the sun can't quite make up its mind whether it really wants to shine a bit dimmer.  
  
"So, anything pressing I need to deal with while I'm, uh, the pack caretaker? I mean, I don't know how this works, or how long you're going to be out of sorts."  
  
"Should come to you without thinking," says Derek, staring at the trees whipping past them. "I imagine it will a be a week or so till I'm back... this is so bizarre, I feel on top of the world now. Except I know I'm not."  
  
Stiles tries not to mull on that. It's going to hurt, seeing the spell wear off and Derek sink back into despair. He presses his foot down on the accelerator, wanting to get to Hill Valley as quickly as possible.  
  
"And this State Council of Alphas? What do I need to do about that?"  
  
"I've done most of the work. I should be able to attend. My mom hated them... she said it was usually just a load of posturing about whose pack is the awesomest. But our pack has been in the news, given all our... non-traditional approach to things."  
  
Stiles cocks his head in very wolf-like fashion.  
  
Derek sighs. "Sadly a lot of my kin are still in the Dark Ages. My mother fought tirelessly for equality. Did you know there are werewolves who look down on their own children for being human? But the Supreme Council has been liberal for a while now, and is pressing for change. They're looking at our pack as a test case, and I need to demonstrate how well we've functioned. Wolves. Humans. Gay. Straight. Even fucking Hunters. And let's not forget we're a democratic pack where no-one is an Omega; we have voting rights and two Alphas."  
  
Stiles nods, taking the turn-off into Hill Valley. "I like that we're a steaming cup of fuck you to all those bigots.   
  
As they drive past the old clock tower, still stuck at 10:04 where a lightning bolt arrested it in 1985, the levity in their conversation starts disappearing. Stiles is heavy-hearted as he parks in the lot in front of the Beacon Hills Clinic.   
  
Stiles opens the door for his mate when they come to Dr McQueen's rooms.   
  
A middle-aged lady with a Far Side beehive looks up at them from her desk.  
  
"Hello," says Stiles. "I've brought Mr Hale here for his 1 pm with Dr McQueen."  
  
"Oh yes," the receptionist says. "Unfortunately Dr McQueen suddenly took ill. But we have a locum who's filling in for him, Dr Parker. She'll see you shortly."  
  
Stiles and Derek frown at each other, then sit down in the waiting room. Stiles feels a chill snaking up his back. Minutes pass. Eventually the door opens to the consulting room, and a woman steps out. She is svelte with fierce blue eyes and freckles.  
  
"Mr Hale," she says in a business-like voice.  
  
Derek nods, and squeezes Stiles's hand. Stiles can feel the darkness starting to descend on Derek, and he cracks a bit inside. But, he counters in his head, at least it can be made visible, so that healing can begin. Derek gets up meekly, and walks into the shrink's office.   
  
After twenty minutes, Stiles cannot handle it any more. He walks out of the consulting room, and walks out of the clinic, pacing in the garden abutting the Hill Valley Hospital next door. He wishes he'd taken up smoking, because a cigarette might have helped calm his nerves right now.  
  
Eventually his cell beeps.  
  
Done, says his mate's message.  
  
Derek is sitting, muted and involuted on the waiting room couch as Stiles walks back in. He looks utterly miserable again. He holds a small piece of paper in his hand.  
  
"Hey," says Stiles, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. "What's that?"  
  
"A prescription," he says. "Zoloft."  
  
Stiles nods uneasily. He reaches out to Derek, helps him up.   
  
"Zoloft?" says Stiles as they walk back to the car. "I was on that stuff. I thought werewolves..."  
  
"I have to take it with this tincture she...um... gave me. Very dilute wolfsbane."  
  
Stiles's brain flashes with exclamation marks.   
  
Derek shrugs. "She's the expert. Apparently lots of werewolves with issues do well on antidepressants. Better than any temporary magic spell, anyway. The wolfsbane apparently will let it work or something."  
  
"Okaaaaayyyyy," said Stiles, uncertain. He blows out his cheeks, and opens the door of the Jeep.  
  
The darkness is definitely descending on the werewolf as they drive back. He sits motionless in the car as Stiles goes to fill the prescription from the drugstore. They have to get back to the loft, he thinks. A cup of tea and some cuddling will make him feel better. It's going to be all right. The meds will start working.  
  
Derek is almost comatose as they walk back into the loft. Stiles has to practically force him to change into sweats and a T-shirt.  
  
"It will be okay, love," Stiles says, sitting down next to him and rubbing his back.  
  
"No it won't," Derek says suddenly, and his eyes are red and wet.  
  
"Aw, Sillywolf, that's just the depression talking," his mate says, and hugs him tight.  
  
"No it isn't," Derek gasps, the tears running freely now. "I can't... I can't keep doing this to you, Stiles. I can't keep on hurting you."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"I betrayed you. I betrayed my mate."  
  
"I don't understand," says Stiles, now genuinely confused.  
  
Stiles reaches to run his hand through the werewolf's hair, but then Derek pushes him away.  
  
 _"I cheated on you_."  
  
"What?!" Stiles gasps, and the horror courses through him like an electric current.   
  
"Stiles... I..."  
  
"NO!"   
  
He's breathless, socked in the stomach with hurt disbelief.  
  
Then fury.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Stiles. I don't really remember... there's this fog..."  
  
" _You don't remember destroying everything we hold dear_? No. Fuck you, Derek! Fuck you!"  
  
Derek nods miserably as Stiles gets up. The brunet's face is a study in outrage and shock.  
  
"Oh God," the werewolf says. "I fucked up everything. I don't deserve you."  
  
"Damn right you don't!" Stiles screams. "Goodbye, Derek," he says, and turns on his heel, racing out of the loft.  
  
Derek bursts into tears, howling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thanks to everyone for reading and commenting! I'm still stuck finishing "In The Spaces Of The Dark" but will hopefully have the final chapters up soon! In the meantime, this little story is helping me get through writer's block... hope you're enjoying it, even if I'm ripping your heart out...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not just sad, he’s angry.
> 
> Angry at the universe. 
> 
> Thank you for giving me a mother, then taking her away. Thank you for giving me the love of my life and then have him sear my soul with pain. Thank you India, thank you Alanis, thank you disillusionment.

"Bro?" 

Jackson walks cautiously towards where Stiles is sitting in their dorm room, slumped, staring into space. 

"Whittemore," Stiles says flatly, not looking at him. 

The blond boy sits down next to him. He can smell the misery on his packmate. 

"You've been sitting in your room for three days," Jackson says as gently as he can. "You're going to shrivel up or something." 

"I don't care," Stiles mutters. 

The rage has eaten a hollow inside him; he feels almost nothing, registers little around him. Jackson might as well be a fleeting glimpse in a dream. All that replays itself in the brunet's mind is a whirlpool of hurt as he imagines _who_ it was, _where_ it was, _how_ he or she smelled. He's nauseous with sadness. 

"I don't care if he's my Alpha," says Jackson. "I'll rip his throat out for doing this to you." 

Somewhere in the emptiness, a little light registers; Stiles is touched. 

"You don't have to do that," says Stiles. 

"No," says Jackson, now furious. "Fuck him. Anyway. _You're_ my Alpha now. I heard." 

"Oh, yeah," says Stiles, still staring into the distance. "That. Fat lot of help I'm going to be. We might as well disband." 

Jackson puts a warm hand on Stiles's shoulder, resisting the urge to smother him with a hug. "Don't say that. You're the glue in this pack. You always have been. No-one messes with my bro except me. I know I'm the douche in this outfit." 

Stiles laughs bitterly. He knows Jackson is trying to help. 

"You were never really a douche," Stiles says, in spite of the gall and misery echoing inside him. "You were just a poser.”

“Yeah, well, I’d really be a douche if I ignored the fact that you’re sliding into whatever’s been eating Derek. Not that that gave him any excuse.” 

Jackson is nervous. He doesn’t do awkward emotional moments well. He just wants to get Stiles out of the room and… somewhere… where they can talk shit. 

“Whatever.” 

“Stiles. You look like shit. Have a shower and let me take you for a beer. And something to eat.” 

“You know, in other packs you’d get snapped at for ordering an Alpha around.”

“I’m glad to see you still have some sense of humour. I was getting worried.” 

Stiles shrugs. 

“Bro. Please.” 

Jackson looks so desperate, so irritatingly cute in his preppy golf shirt.

“Fine,” says Stiles, snorting.  

“Maybe I can set out some clothes for you while you shower?” Jackson asks suddenly, walking towards the dresser they share. 

“You’re not my mom.” 

“Yes, but you are kind of the pack mom. And, well, my Alpha now… and my Alpha is hurting.” 

A pang twitches across Stiles’s heart as he hears that. When Jackson decided not to go to Harvard, but stay in California to be close to Lydia, he insisted on being Stiles’s roomie. They even pledged to the same fraternity. That Superbro Abercrombie Wolf regards Stiles as one of his best bros is still something the brunet can’t quite fully parse. But he’s learnt that underneath the jock’s frat boy douchebaggery is a kind, sensitive soul. And a very loyal pack member.

In spite of himself, Stiles feels better after Jackson practically forces two beers and a burger down the brunet’s throat. It’s an odd reversal; Jackson doing most of the talking, Stiles nodding, trying to pay as much attention as he can. Jackson’s even tried talking about Star Wars. Something he is decidedly not an authority on. 

Eventually, Jackson tentatively changes to the subject they’ve been avoiding. 

“What… what are you going to do?” 

Stiles downs the dregs of his beer. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what to feel. I’ve never felt anything like this before… it’s like my heart’s been ripped out and someone’s stomped all over it.” 

Instinctively, Jackson grabs Stiles’s arm. He can feel hurt, but he can’t leach it away, because it isn’t a physical thing. He whines softly with frustration.  

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, more to calm the other man’s distress. “Time, I guess. All the cliches. I just want to get it the fuck over with. I wish I didn’t have to… to _feel_ … and, oh God. I hate him now so much, Jackson, but I still _love him._ That’s pathetic, isn’t it?” 

“No,” the werewolf says simply. “You can’t just switch off your feelings for someone. You’re mates, for fucks sakes.” 

“Mates!” Stiles snaps. “Yeah, big fucking deal that turned out to be! So much for an eternal bond!” 

“Which is why it doesn’t make sense, bro. Derek wasn’t in his right mind… you told me he said he doesn’t even remember…” 

“Then why did he even say it? I’d rather not know, Jackson. God, I’d rather not know. You know… ever since Derek and I… I thought, this can work. There’s going to be no more sorrows I can’t face head on. I’ve been happy, damn it, happy for the first time in… and now…” 

Stiles is tearful, and breathing fast. Both of them can sense the rising panic. 

“Stiles. Easy. I know it hurts.” 

Stiles puts his head in his hands, heaving a big sigh. Jackson shifts uncomfortably, not sure of what to do. As if echoing his thoughts, Stiles looks up at him. 

“It’s… fine… just stay here.”

“Of course. Anything for a pack mate.”

“Oh, _fuck_. I’m the Alpha now. And I’m a _mess_. The pack might as well not exist.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to do this if you can’t… surely I can speak to Deaton? There must be guidelines about what to do in times of crisis…”

“I _am_ the guideline in times of crisis. I tried to get hold of Scott, but he and Allison are doing a pilgrimage in Spain where there’s no fucking cell reception. He has no idea what’s gone down. Derek… is in no shape to lead the pack. When the puny human has to lead things, then you know things are going down the toilet rapidly…”  

“Stop that,” says Jackson, and his eyes flash yellow for the briefest of moments. “You’re easily the cleverest and most responsible member of this pack. I don’t know how to make you feel better, Stiles, but let me help with Alpha stuff. Tell me what to do. I know you’ve got this Council meeting to prepare for. Maybe… maybe that can help take your mind off things?” 

Stiles sighs. Jackson speaks sense, even though all the brunet wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of the week.  

Pretty much what Derek has been doing, he realises. 

His phone beeps. As he suspected, it’s another message from Derek. There’s been a slew of calls and messages, all of which he’s ignored.

 

_Please, Stiles. I just want to know if you’re ok. I mean, physically. I’m so sorry. Again. I’ll never forgive myself._

 

“Is it him?” 

Stiles nods, and then finally responds, the first message of acknowledgement since he stormed out of the flat.

 

 

_If I tell you I’m in one piece will you fuck off and leave me alone? Stop texting me. Stop calling. I just can’t._

 

 

The phone beeps almost instantly after he sends the text.

 

 

_I understand. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll stop. But I’ll always love you. So sorry. D._

 

 

Asshole, Stiles thinks. He tells me he loves me. 

He even had the gall to text him _It meant nothing to me. I swear._

 

What a fucking cliché.

 

But somehow… and this is what really hurts… Stiles knows that Derek really does love him.

 

He just didn’t love him enough in that moment, it seems.

 

Whoever said that love hurts, was making the understatement of all time.

 

 

*

 

Lydia and Jackson turn out to be very good Stiles-sitters. She’s taken notes for all the classes he’s skipped —filed, sorted, colour-coded—  faked a doctor’s note for the test he missed and got him an extension on a paper that was due. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t comment, just is a warm presence. Inside, her heart cracks for this boy, the man she loves most after Jackson. Her boyfriend drags Stiles to gym, hoping some weights and sweating will make him feel better. They don’t, but they make Stiles tired, so he at least sleeps more deeply. 

It’s the night before the Stanford rugby team is leaving for the tour to Oregon, and the three are sitting in Lydia’s apartment, trying to make sense of all the statistics that have been gathered on the pack. It hurts, reading Derek’s notes, seeing the beautiful flowing hand Stiles knows so well. Lydia is arranging everything in Excel and PowerPoint and is in danger of turning what should be a fifteen minute presentation into a corporate keynote address. 

“You’ve done more than enough,” Stiles says pleasantly, as Lydia goes through the slides with him. “This will knock their socks off. I just need to write my presentation down… God, I don’t know how I would do any of this Alpha stuff without you guys. What if I actually have to deal with pack politics or… shit… conflict?” 

“You just will, expertly,” Lydia coos. Jackson sits mugs down in front of them. 

Stiles’s phone rings. It’s Deaton. 

“Deaton, for God’s sake, I’m fine. I wish everybody would leave me the fuck alone.” 

“Stiles… there’s stuff you have to deal with. Alpha stuff.” 

“What? Oh shit.”

“It’s more rubber-stamping, really. But we have an omega in our territory who is seeking sanctuary.” 

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It’s at the Alpha’s discretion to give a packless wolf sanctuary. She’s seeking our protection.” 

Stiles frowns, while Jackson stares wide-eyed at Lydia as he listens in. “Protection from what?” the brunet asks. 

“Her old pack, probably. She escaped for some reason. She won’t tell me. She’s here with me, at my rooms. Had been wondering in the Preserve for days. Isaac found her when he went for a run this morning. Caught scent of an unknown wolf and went to investigate. Anyway, she was all confused and dehydrated, so he brought her to me.” 

“Well… well… of course… what do I do?” 

Deaton sighs. “You need to physically welcome her into the pack. Scent-mark her, actually.” 

“I’m a _human_ , Deaton.” 

“Yes, but you give off the scent of an Alpha. The bond is in your blood. If you don’t, she can’t help send out a signal that she’s vulnerable. Any hunter outside of our pack’s alliance… any werewolf even… they could turn her into mincemeat.” 

“I’m in Stanford, Alan. Like three hours away. And I’m leaving for Oregon at four in the morning. Can’t I like send her a little werewolf acceptance letter or something?” 

Deaton is silent for a moment. “I need to put her somewhere safe, then, until you can see her. Can you come through after… this rugby tour, right?” 

Stiles groans. Coming back to Beacon Hills, possibly running into Derek… it’s the last thing he wants to do. Seeing Derek will just be too painful. 

“Well, _do_ that, put her somewhere safe!” 

“You’re the Alpha,” says Deaton. “You have to decide. When it comes to protecting your pack…” 

 _My pack_.   

Stiles shivers. Something inside him awakens, shakes, uncoils. Its as if he senses the girl, not knowing who she is, but feeling her: cold, frightened, confused. 

“It’s… it’s Chloe, isn’t it? I’m getting that. Holy fuck, I don’t know how, but I’m getting that.” 

Stiles can almost hear Deaton smiling wryly. “A red with Alpha status… it kind of magnifies your natural clairvoyance, Stiles. But be careful. This kind of feedback can hurt you.” 

“Tell me about it. I’ve been having migraines. But anyway. So. This girl. Take her to my dad. Our house is warded. And he is the Sheriff, and he can get social services or something.” 

“Well chosen, Alpha,” says Deaton.

For a moment Stiles forgets about his anguish, feeling vindicated. He can do this. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do about coming to Beacon Hills. Listen… I got to go. I’ll call my dad and… say, Alan?” 

“Yes?” 

Stiles hesitates. But then he blurts it out, even as he tries to suppress the question. 

“Derek… how… how is he?” 

Alan sighs. “He’s pretty much the same. Cora’s with him. I checked in on him yesterday. He’s taking his meds, and she’s driving him through to the shrink every other day. But he’s safe, Stiles… I know this must be difficult for you, to say the least. He keeps saying how sorry he is; he keeps asking for you.” 

Stiles doesn’t know whether to burst into tears or fly into a rage.  

“I can’t see him now, Alan… I just can’t.” 

“Of course. You need to process what happened… are you coping with this Pack thing?” 

“It’s all I’ve got that’s keeping me together. I think I’ll manage for now. Up to date with the Pack Council thing too.” 

“I need to remind myself how strong you are, Stiles,” says Alan. “You’re stronger than… many wolves I’ve known. With or without your magic.” 

“Whatever. Listen, I gotta go.”

He rings off.  

Lydia kneels down in front of her friend and takes his hand, while Jackson whines, not sure what to do.  

“Stiles,” the strawberry blonde says softly, “you don’t have to be so strong. You’re bottling things up. Jackson and I… and Isaac… we spoke to him… you know the law on mutiny in a pack?” 

Stiles screws up his eyes, and vomits out the words that he knows so well. He practically has a PhD in Pack Law.

“ _In the event of an Alpha wilfully betraying their mate, or placing any pack member in danger for personal gain, the pack is free to disband and reform under a new leader while stripping the errant Alpha of his or her status, who must then be reported to the local Supreme Council representative for violation of the Law.”_  

Stiles is silent for a long time. 

“No,” he says eventually. “I’m not going to be that guy. When Derek’s better… then we can have a conversation. He has to fucking get better, so I can punch his sorry face, I don’t care if I break my hand. And so I can make him even more depressed with the mother of all guilt trips I’ll put on him.” 

“Not many people would be so gracious,” says Jackson. “Like I said, I’m happy to maul him for what he did to you.” 

“Do you know what really hurts?” says Stiles, the tears streaming down his face. “The fact that he was just so resigned about it. That he didn’t quite remember the details. All the fucking cliches… it meant nothing to him, he was weak, he realises now how much he loves me. He’s such an asshole because he fucking isn’t an asshole… I… I…” 

He slumps down, and Lydia catches him as he bursts into tears. She rocks him to and fro like a baby, stroking his hair. He cries unapologetically.

After a couple of deep sobs, he frees himself from Lydia and settles in between her and Jackson, who puts his arm around him protectively. Jackson is drying his tears with the edge of his $200 shirt, for crying out loud. He’s amazed how safe he feels with Jackson, almost as safe and warm as when he’s around Scott… or… oh God, Derek. 

“I hate him for what he did to you,” says Lydia. “Except I’m not sure what he did to you. Or with whom.” 

“I know it was a girl,” says Stiles. “Not sure how, but I know. But… what does it help.” 

“You sure you’re gonna be ok in Oregon?”

“Of course he is,” says Jackson. “I’ll be with him. He’s our secret weapon. He’s gonna kick some ass on the field. And you and Isaac are coming for the weekend game.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

They were all going to drive from Portland to Hood River after the game and spend the rest of the weekend there. Stiles and Derek. Jackson and Lydia. Isaac and Kerry, the blonde waitress he’s been courting. 

So much for that happy couple weekend away.

“Listen… I gotta go pack, and we’re leaving early.” 

“Go get ‘em,” Lydia says, and then both Lydia and Jackson give him a big hug. 

The momentary lightness in his heart slinks away as he walks into his dorm room. He’s glad to be alone; Jackson is spending the night with Lydia. He packs his rugby kit, his clothes, his toiletries, finishes reading _The Maze Runner_ and finishes a short story he’s been writing about a leper colony set on the Moon. It’s midnight when he lays his head down, and his phone bleeps again. 

Cora:

Are you hanging in there? Meant to call a while back but I figured you needed to be alone. 

 

Stiles:

_Hi. That’s nice of you, but I don’t expect you to be concerned about me._

Cora:

_ He is my brother, but you are my friend too. I’m not getting involved either way. Except to say he’s absolutely miserable. Which I guess he should be. _

 

Stiles:

_I can’t go into that now, please._  

 

Cora:

_ Sorry. I just desperately wish you two would talk. _

Stiles:

_Tell him I will talk when he’s feeling better and I have had some time and space. Please.  _

Cora:

_ Of course. _

Stiles:

_Is he taking his medication?_

 

Cora:

_Yes. Seems to be helping. He gets out of bed, and he goes to the psychiatrist. He says it's helping. Honestly I don’t know what is the depression talking and what is him rightly being upset and guilty. But that’s not your problem.  _

 

Stiles:

_I don’t know what to say. But thank you for looking after him.  _

 

Cora:

_I’m furious with him, you know. And I’m glad you’re leading the pack for now.  _

 

Stiles:

_All I ask, will you keep an eye on this new Omega?  _

 

Cora: 

_Already sorting it out with your dad._   

 

Stiles:

_Thanks. Keep me in the loop.  _

 

Cora:

_Will do. But you enjoy the rugby tour. I’m sorry I won’t be there, to see you in action. When will I see you?_

 

Stiles:

_Soon. Though I don’t want to see Derek. Yet._ _Or perhaps not ever._

 

Cora: 

_I get that. Anyway. Sorry if I woke you._

 

Stiles:

_ No problem. Chat soon _

Cora:

_Night.  _

 

  
* 

The rugby coach is a burly ex-Springbok, a corn-fed ginger South African who looks like a carrot-topped Wolverine having a bad hair day. 

“Gentlemen,” he says in his Southern Hemisphere accent –half Germanic, half-British– “we’re going to take _no prisoners_. We’re undefeated. I need war, I need _aggression_. Without breaking any laws. Or if you do, no-one must find out.”  

Stiles swears the coach is channeling Finstock. He misses his gawky teenage days sometimes, when he and Scott were just a duo of geekness, hopeless at lacrosse and even more tragic at social interactions. Now he’s some kind of weird hybrid jock-nerd with a key position on a (relatively) important varsity team, is a scholarship student in pre-med, and has a werewolf for a boyfriend. Had. (Has? Had? The heart is an organ that doesn’t understand the past tense.)

Aggression? Stiles thinks. Oh yes. You can have it. 

He’s not just sad, he’s angry.

Angry at the universe. 

Thank you for giving me a mother, then taking her away. Thank you for giving me the love of my life and then have him sear my soul with pain. Thank you India, thank you Alanis, thank you disillusionment.

They trounce Oregon. Stiles nearly gets yellow-carded for a rough tackle and scores a winning try. He gets bruised several times, doesn’t care about the scratches and bruises, hardly registers when the team hoists him up in the air. After the game he drinks a ridiculous amount of tequila and before passing out in a puddle next to his own puke he drunk texts Derek. 

 _Why? Why? Why? You broke my heart. Just after I thought it had healed after so many years._  

He comes to in a bilious haze in a room he doesn’t recognise. His mouth is dry as a salt pan, he taste the sick at the back of his throat. He doesn’t remember changing into boxers and a tee. 

And then there’s the girl standing in front of him with a wry grin on her face.  

  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I know my big story isn't finished yet, but I needed to clear my mind. This should be a short little fic of a few chapters, and I just wanted to try a darker take on things... let me know if you like it!


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